


The Ravages of Time

by iceprinceofbelair



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, Gen, Manipulative Dumbledore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceprinceofbelair/pseuds/iceprinceofbelair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus Snape confides in his Transfiguration Professor in his fourth year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ravages of Time

Minerva prides herself on her ability to see things objectively. She's not afraid to dock house points from Gryffindor for misbehaviour. Her previous house loyalty doesn't seem to apply anymore - not as a teacher. Of course, she engages in the traditional light-teasing in the staffroom but she's always careful to ensure her Gryffindors toe the line and that they aren't let off any lighter than the other houses when they overstep it.

Perhaps that's why he comes to her.

The Snape boy has always been at odds with James Potter and his gang of Marauders, as they call themselves. He makes his distaste for "Gryffindor stupidity" quite plain. As such, she can't keep the surprise from showing on her face when he knocks on her office door a little before dinner one evening, looking for all the world like he's about to lose his lunch.

"What can I do for you, Mr Snape?" She asks briskly, her mind wandering briefly to the mountain of essays on her desk awaiting her marks. The fifth years are busy preparing for their OWLs and the seventh years their NEWTs which means she's perpetually buried under a pile of parchment. It also, unfortunately, means that the fourth years and down have been somewhat neglected.

Snape shuffles uncomfortably which is so completely out of character that Minerva immediately suspects some kind of trick. But the way he fiddles nervously with his fingers makes her reconsider. There doesn't seem to be anything false about his fear.

"Apologies for the interruption, Professor," he says with forced formality. His voice is small and lacks its usual self-assurance. "I was hoping I might speak to you about...something?"

Minerva regards him silently for merely a moment before she steps aside to allow him entry. He walks past her timidly, glancing around himself in a manner which reminds her of a frightened rabbit.

"Have a seat, Snape," she offers, keeping her tone carefully neutral. From his demeanour, he's either coming to confess to some prank which has gone horribly wrong (highly unlikely but not outwith the realms of possibility) or he's about to take an enormous leap of faith.

Snape perches uneasily on the edge of her cushioned sofa, twisting his hands restlessly in his lap. His eyes dart around the room before they finally settle on her face and she sees the depth of panic in his gaze. Her expression softens.

"Professor, I-" he begins, stammering over his words. "I don't wish to be a bother but- well, I was wondering if maybe- I-"

He stops short and Minerva tries not to show her impatience.

Without warning, he jumps to his feet, muttering apologies and something about mistakes before he bolts for the door. She moves swiftly between the boy and his escape route and he freezes. She won't truly prevent him from leaving if that's what he wants but now he's aroused her concern.

"Mr Snape," she begins, keeping her voice stern. She has no doubt that showing her worry will only drive the boy away. He's too Slytherin for his own good. "I assure you that whatever you have sought me out to discuss will be treated with the utmost sincerity."

His face relaxes a little and his shoulders seem to unclench. Minerva wonders how many times he's been called a liar if the fear of disbelief is so strong. He settles himself on the couch again.

"I couldn't go to Professor Slughorn," he tells her, somewhat bitterly. "He'd think I was weak. I'm not weak."

Minerva raises an eyebrow. "I did not think you were."

"Good," Snape mutters, apparently to himself. Silence falls again, albeit briefly. After a moment, he collects himself. "Usually, I can take it. I'm good at pretending not to care. I'm very good."

"I'm sure you are," Minerva agrees but she can't quash the awful swell of suspicion in her stomach. She wants to be wrong. But the boy is a Slytherin and it's an unfortunate truth that the value Slytherin house attributes to self-preservation means it sees more abused youngsters than any other. Her own house, she's loath to admit, falls not far behind.

"He broke my wrist last summer," Snape whispers, flicking his gaze towards his hands which have started tapping nervously on his thighs. Minerva makes a mental note to take the boy to Poppy as soon as they finish here.

"Who did?" She breathes, unsure if she wants to know the answer.

Snape shakes his head minutely and sits up a little straighter. He goes on without any other indication of having heard.

"Sometimes it's okay. It's not all bad. The pushing isn't so bad. Belt hurts, though," he says. His voice goes flat, emotionless. "I hate it when he shouts."

"What sort of things does he shout?" Minerva asks and her voice sticks painfully in her throat.

Snape swallows imperceptibly. "Worthless," he manages, with obvious difficulty. "Freak. And mistake. And burden."

There's a haunted look in his dark eyes which sends shivers down her spine.

"I don't want to be those things anymore," he says, bringing his hands up to rub his watering eyes. There's a telltale shudder in his breath, in his speech. He seems to be pleading with her but she doesn't know how to help. "I can't- I don't know how to be better. I don't mean to be bad. I don't mean it. I don't."

He sniffs and looks away. "I tried so hard to be good."

Minerva watches him with a terrible feeling of dread welling up in her chest. It wraps itself tight around her middle, squeezing, constricting.

"Mr Snape," she manages to say at last and her words are impossibly tight. "Dinner will be served in approximately seven minutes. If you would like to make your way to the Great Hall, I will speak to the Headmaster about-"

"No!" Snape all but yells and Minerva wants to scold him for interrupting a teacher but she sees the wild panic in his eyes and in his posture and she the words die on her lips. He's on his feet again, backing round the sofa in an attempt to reach the door without moving too close to her. "No, please. You don't understand. Please don't."

"Mr Snape-" she begins again but he interrupts a second time.

"Please," he says and his voice is so cracked and desperate that Minerva feels her chest tighten even further. "I'm sorry to have brought it up. Let's just pretend it never happened. Sorry about the inconvenience, Professor. I really must be going."

His words come out all in a rush and he's bolted down the corridor before she can even make the decision to call after him. That poor boy.

She doesn't see him at dinner but she follows Albus up to his study directly after the meal. Once they stand within the security of the Headmaster's office, she repeats Snape's sorry tale to Albus who looks both grave and thoughtful throughout her regurgitation.

Albus sighs. "If the boy is unwilling to co-operate, I'm afraid there's little we can do."

Minerva almost lets her mouth hang open. Surely he's not suggesting... "But Albus, surely-" she begins but he holds up a wrinkled hand to silence her

"I shall, of course, speak with the child about the situation," Albus goes on. "Perhaps he will think differently once he has had the chance to cool off."

Minerva purses her lips. There's more to this than meets the eye. She has never known Albus Dumbledore to shy away from rule-breaking. If he truly wished to remove the Snape boy from that toxic environment, it would have only been too easy.

She hated to turn the other cheek to Albus' faults but the alternative - that he could possibly condone the emotional and physical abuse of a child - is too dreadful to comprehend.

"Very well," she says coolly.

Perhaps, if she'd pushed, things might have been different.

~

Working with former students becomes easier with time. Severus Snape has grown into a man all of his own - a man who doesn't suffer fools wisely, who has been through more trauma than Minerva can imagine and she too has lived through a war. His dark eyes don't show fear anymore. They don't show anything. So accustomed is he to playing the role of the spy that he's far more guarded than he was when he sat in her office at the age of fourteen, frightened and at the end of some invisible tether.

(She hadn't slept easy that summer when they'd had "no choice" but to send him back. Minerva often thinks back to that meeting with Albus. She wonders - a fervently hopes to be wrong - if Albus perhaps saw in Severus the makings of a spy even back then.)

Severus' presence in her office is not unheard of though, to look at him, you wouldn't know he'd ever been so afraid. He sits comfortably in an arm chair, one leg crossed over the other and his robes falling elegantly around his body. His cloak fans out over the thick arms of the chair and Minerva thinks that his likeness to a bat has never been more pronounced. His arms lie flat along the armrests, the fingers of his right hand tapping out a steady rhythm against the fabric.

She observes him silently from her workbench. Often, when he shows face, he likes to sit in her company without speaking a word. Minerva never asks but she imagines it probably makes him feel at ease. Safe, perhaps.

"I doubt I'll survive this war, Minerva," he tells her flatly without looking up. "Hardly surprising. I have little to fight for."

Minerva puts down her quill and moves to sit on the sofa. "There's always Hogwarts. Your Slytherins. They look up to you."

Severus' smile is hollow and cynical. "You know better than most, Minerva, that I'm hardly a positive role model for children."

"You sell yourself short," she scolds him sternly.

"I do not," he assures her.

She knows better than to argue and so the silence stretches on mercilessly until he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, letting the tension go from his upper body. Minerva doesn't know how he survives as a coil constantly wound to full capacity. The pressure of his position is enough to drive anyone mad. But not Severus. And Minerva knows his previous judgement is accurate; he has nothing left to live for. Nothing but a castle which holds more negative memories than positive - the memories of a lost friendship, old rivalries, and bad decisions.

Honestly, she's stunned he agreed to return at all.

"He hated magic," Severus begins softly. Minerva doesn't need to ask who. "Thought he could beat it out of me if he tried hard enough, I expect. After a while, I wouldn't put it past him to have enjoyed it. He always did crave control. I often wonder if asserting his dominance over a child made him feel powerful."

Minerva can scarcely believe what she's hearing. All these years, she's been dropping hints, reminders. Every Hallowe'en, she leaves a box of chocolate frogs on his desk and with a note stating simply, _you know where to find me._ Now, he's finally taken her up on the offer. Twenty years is a long time to keep a secret.

"The belt was the worst of it, generally speaking," he goes on with an air to his voice as though commenting on the weather. "Though I can't say I cared much for broken bottles. It's the stereotype, isn't it? He drank and he beat me and now I'm becoming a carbon copy of my father."

It's the first time he's ever specified his abuser. Not that there was ever any doubt.

"You're nothing like him," she growls defensively. "You don't even drink."

The unasked question hangs in the air - _and why do you think that is?_

"It was the shouting I couldn't stand. Irony never fails to amuse."

Minerva can't see anything amusing about the situation but she understands what he means to say. For a man who cowered away from loud noises, he certainly knows how to tear a student down.

"Every time I use his words, I want to purge myself," he says bitterly. She can see him remembering every student he's ever called stupid or pathetic or useless.

Minerva doesn't pretend to understand the enigma of Severus Snape. He's a complex man.

"I don't want to be like him."

Severus' voice is so soft that Minerva almost misses his comment. She feels her hackles rising.

"You're nothing like him," she says again.

"I am!" His voice becomes a shout without warning but she doesn't even flinch. Severus needs this. He needs her to be there, to listen. "I'm exactly like him."

Severus is on his feet. He paces. She lets him.

"I belittle them and I enjoy it. I bully the ones who need me to _teach_. I assert my power because I like to be in control."

She can see how much it pains him to admit these things. He stops his pacing with his back to her.

"I'm just like him."

Cautiously, Minerva stands. She crosses the room slowly until she's close enough to place a hand on his shoulder. He flinches.

It aches inside her. She squeezes his shoulder desperately but she knows as well as he does that nothing will ever make this better. It's too late for this acceptance, for this comfort. Severus is hanging onto life by a thread, awaiting the moment he ceases to be of use and perfectly prepared to fade away. His parents are dead. There can be no retribution. The scars run too deep.

"Sorry about the inconvenience, Minerva."

It's too late.

"I really must be going."

Twenty years too late.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, I really want to punch him in the face. Other times, I want to give him a hug. Mostly, I want to do both.


End file.
